


When Does a War End?

by Artemisausten



Series: When Does a War End? [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, I'm just saying, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nesta's not in a good mental place, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Smut, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Rhys, Rape/Non-con Elements, This is kind of dark, and I shouldn't be allowed around a word processing program, and Nesta, and it just happens, but this happened, not explicit rape, pregnant feyre, probably not for feysand lovers, so you're all stuck with it, there's some nesta/rhysand stuff because they're both struggling to cope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemisausten/pseuds/Artemisausten
Summary: “Hey…” Nesta’s expression quickly turns into a scowl as he leans toward her, a low growl sounding as he leans forward and sniffs the air like a dog.“What,” Nesta starts sharply, “do you think you’re doing?” Cassian would swear that she seems nervous, panicked, as he does it.“There’s a weird smell in your apartment.” Cassian doesn’t miss how Nesta goes perfectly still at the statement, surprised that she seems too shocked to protest when he pushes past her, following the scent. Something about it bothers him and he doesn’t understand why. It’s a primal response, so automatic that he doesn’t recognize it when it happens. He just pushes further into her apartment, trying to find it, trying to figure out what it is.___________________________________An angsty story where Rhys and Nesta both have trouble coping with past trauma and become drinking buddies and hook up behind Feyre's back. Implies/references past rape and includes non-graphic smut because....look, I'm posting this at 2am. It just happened, okay?I even made a second part.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Nesta Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Tomas Mandray, Rhysand/Amarantha
Series: When Does a War End? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040273
Comments: 56
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of inspired by a rambling post I made on tumblr about how we really don't see Rhys having trouble with the fact that spent like fifty years being raped repeatedly, and not only is a male but also the most powerful high lord in the history of Prythian, so...that should really mess him up. Oh, I played with the Nesta/Tomas storyline, too.
> 
> And also I've been reading Ocean Vuong's "On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous" and almost every word of it, I 1000% recommend it. I think it's my favorite book of 2020.
> 
> And then THIS happened.
> 
> And I'm really tempted to do a part two, even though I'm expecting everyone to hate this.

“When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?” –Ocean Vuong, _On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous_.

It starts with a sip.

That’s all Nesta really needs.

One little sip, she reasons, to take the edge off. She can feel her heart pounding a staccato beat against her ribs, feel the tiny little tremor in her palms as her fingers curl around the glass. The anticipation of it is killing her. She tries to calm herself, to steady her hand and remind that all too familiar twist in her stomach that it’s only a sip and a sip isn’t a big deal and anyway, she thinks, she shouldn’t rush herself.

It’s a sip to enjoy it. A sip to remind herself of something finer, _better_ , in her life. A sip because she wants it.

She can always walk away from a sip.

She takes the glass and downs it quickly, not caring what she’s actually taking a sip of as she feels the amber liquid wash over her teeth and move down her throat. She can feel the release in it—that’s all that matters. The way her heart doesn’t pound quite so quickly, her palms a little steadier, the muscles in her back starting to relax just a little.

But Nesta isn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself. Her stomach doesn’t unknot because she knows—she just _knows_ —that one little sip doesn’t keep the tremors away for long. It doesn’t stop that sick feeling in her gut, the way her palms sweat every second of every day as she tries desperately to just _survive_ whatever happens next. It doesn’t stop the rush in her chest that feels like all the air is being sucked from her lungs and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, _gods she can’t breathe_.

One little sip becomes one little drink.

Then one little drink becomes two.

Two drinks become a bottle.

A bottle becomes a male, eyeing her at the end of the bar as he takes a drink of his own. Nesta can feel his eyes on her, though she honestly can’t figure out why at this point. She’s not blind to the fact that she’s so skinny, she barely looks human.

Or fae, she muses silently.

Whatever the fuck gets her through this night. She’s not sure she cares. It’s exhausting to spend every second of every day fighting, even if you’re only fighting yourself. And Nesta…Nesta feels her jaw harden as she meets that dark male gaze that’s moved over her body long enough to memorize every curve and contour beneath her dress.

Nesta can’t remember the last day she didn’t spend fighting just to survive.

She’ll let the male buy her a drink. She’ll take him home with her. She’ll get lost in whatever he has to offer her. Maybe if she drinks enough, screws enough, all the memories and scars will start to fade just enough that she doesn’t have fight every waking moment to survive.

It’s his name that sets her off.

“Tomas.”

Nesta feels her body go rigid, numbly aware that one hand is clenched so tightly that her nails are digging into her palms. She looks toward her sister sharply. “What?”

Elain doesn’t notice how pale Nesta’s become. She’s too preoccupied with something at the stove, a new recipe from Nuala and Cerridwen that she’s been wanting to try. She doesn’t realize that it only takes a word to stop Nesta in her tracks, like flipping a switch. Nesta the Making-It-Through-The-Day becomes Nesta the Girl-Who-Crawled-Home-In-Her-Torn-Dress-After-Being-Raped within mere fractions of a second. “I was just saying that maybe this place isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s a fresh start. Like what you were saying with Tomas.”

There’s more, of course. Elain actually loves to talk, can always find some way to engage someone in conversation if she really wants to. She’s blossomed in Velaris, like the flowers she so carefully tends to. She’s grown with Lucien, even though it wasn’t easy for either of them. She’s happy here. Nesta has watched it with joy and jealousy—that way of just accepting and moving on and being happy that seems to suit Elain so well. But Nesta doesn’t hear whatever she says, has stopped listening entirely. It almost doesn’t really matter what Elain says, anyway.

Elain is happy and at peace here. Nesta doesn’t believe that happiness and peace are options that could ever be available to her.

She tries not to think about it, but it’s hard now that Elain’s brought it up again. It’s hard to walk through the house and not feel the need to fold her arms over chest in a gesture of comfort and self-defense. It’s hard not to glance back at every shadow that stirs in the corner of her vision. It’s hard not to force herself forward with every step and not remember what it felt like to have to cover herself with mere scraps while the cold December air licked at her skin the same way Tomas’ hands had moved over every inch of her. As far away from that moment as she gets, she thinks, it’ll never be far enough.

You can never outrun the moments that break you, the ones that leave scars so deep you can’t remember what your body and soul looked like beforehand. They’re permanently etched into your being, shaping whatever it is you become—whatever it is you see in yourself—from that moment forward.

She was doing well. Maybe not perfect, maybe not all the time, but better.

But now she needs a sip that won’t just be a sip, in a tavern that she’ll tell herself she’ll only visit the one time but that she’ll come to know by heart before the week is over, with a male she’ll willingly forget after he leaves her shitty apartment in the morning.

When you can’t outrun those moments, when you can’t outrun that name, you’ll do just about anything to escape it…even for just a little while.

For Rhys, it isn’t the name that brings it all back. He hasn’t thought about Amarantha for a long while, about those many nights under the mountain that became many years of his life in which he had no control over his own body. He’s forgotten almost everything about her by now. The sound of her voice as it curled over his name, drawing out the _sss_ sound in mocking joy. The way she’d beckon him forward, back arched and legs opened invitingly as if he was choosing to be there at all. The way she touched him, as if she owned every part of him, controlled his body the same way his power had once let him control the very blood in Feyre’s veins to frighten her.

Rhys hasn’t thought, or dreamt, of those things that happened under the mountain for a long time now. Life with Feyre is easy— _love_ with Feyre is easy. Those memories and nightmares just seem to sink down under the weight of the good of Feyre’s presence in his life, as if they never really belonged there at all.

Things have a way of making it back to the surface, though, if only for a little while.

Feyre comes up behind Rhys as he’s standing at the window, watching the first rays of sunlight streak a fiery orange across the sky. Rhys should be aware of her presence, knows that she was asleep in the bed only moments ago when he got up, but he’s surprised to feel her behind him.

He’s surprised to feel her arms snake around his waist as she pulls him into a hug and murmurs a quiet good morning, and for a brief flash of a second, Rhys forgets where he is.

He’s not standing in the bedroom he shares with Feyre. He’s not standing in front of a window, watching the sun rise. He’s not here, free, alive, happy.

He’s in Amarantha’s room, leaving her bed, pushing down feelings of hatred and disgust so complete that it takes everything he has not to puke then and there. He’s at the end of Amarantha’s bed, reaching for the shirt he’d discarded there earlier, trying not to look too eager, too desperate, to leave. _Just let him leave_. Feyre’s arms are Amarantha’s arms.

Feyre’s voice is Amarantha’s voice.

_Who said you could leave?_

_I thought you’d want to get a little sleep before dealing with the rebels from the Winter court tomorrow._

_I’m not finished with you yet, and I don’t remember giving you permission to **think**_.

Rhys grits his teeth as the words slip back into his mind, a memory once dormant now clawing its way to his consciousness.

_You do what I fucking tell you to, and I’m telling you to get back into my bed._

_Of course, my dear Lady._

She’s dead, he reminds himself quietly, the bond between he and Feyre pulled so taut that he thinks it might snap under the pressure of not letting this through. She’s dead and gone, and he’s here, and he’s happy, and his court and family are safe. It doesn’t matter what he had to do to ensure that safety, it doesn’t matter what he had to endure. He had to make hard choices. _He had to_.

But it does matter, and the knowledge that it matters sits on his shoulders, growing heavier and heavier as the hours pass. It matters that it shouldn’t have happened. It matters that he should have suspected that Amarantha was up to something. It matters that he’s a male, that he’s a high lord, that he’s the _greatest_ high lord in the history of Prythian. It matters that he didn’t see it coming.

It matters that he should have.

It matters through his breakfast with Feyre and the small talk about her day at the studio. It matters through his meetings with Cassian and Azriel, through his discussions about the Illyrians. It matters through the meal he skips, while he paces his office, when his eyes stray to the clock, when he tries to concentrate on the letter Tarquin sent, when he worries about Mor or Tamlin or where Feyre is and if she’s okay with how the baby has been kicking so much lately.

It matters so much that he feels raw, bruised and burdened from every angle, nerves on edge as he tries to soothe that part of him that can’t push back the memory once it’s made its way to the surface. It matters that he went back to that bed, that he let Amarantha push him underneath her and move sharply manicured nails over skin that every instinct in his body told him to cover. It matters that he didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it, _wouldn’t_ ask for it, and it happened anyway. It matters that he didn’t fight, even if it was to save the people and home that he loved. It matters that he let it happen.

It matters that his body responded, a betrayal so primal and deep as Amarantha touched and tasted and used whatever she wanted of him and his body…his body accepted it.

_I don’t know why you’re acting like I’m torturing you._

_Did I do something to give you that impression?_

_Stop pretending, Rhysand. I know you want this. **You** know you want this. Just look at how you’re ready for me._

Rhys had told Feyre that time in the Court of Nightmares that it didn’t mean anything when he was stroking her thighs, that she didn’t have to be self-conscious when he stroked ever further inward and found the dampness there. It was just her body. It was just the stimulation. It didn’t mean anymore.

Rhys told himself those very words once, too. He whispered them to himself in the dark, letting each individual word settle before beginning the next, one string after another string after another string. He wasn’t a child, wasn’t naïve or inexperienced when he went under the mountain. He’d lived long enough and had plenty of lovers to know what the body does and that it didn’t mean consent.

It didn’t.

He knew that.

But maybe he didn’t know that the same way he needed to know that when he was in bed with Amarantha, when she stole his powers and his home and family and his body away from him and left him with those quiet moments where the silence screamed in his ears and that word became branded on his soul forever.

_Whore_.

And he couldn’t deny it. As much as he told himself that it didn’t matter, that it didn’t mean anything, that he didn’t want it, that he was sacrificing for a purpose—that it was a sacrifice at all…Rhys couldn’t escape the fact that he willingly climbed back into that bed. He pleasured her. His body took pleasure in what she did to him. He didn’t fight it.

He wonders sometimes which one is worse—fighting and losing, or never fighting at all. But in the end, it doesn’t really matter, Rhys thinks. He is either a whore or a victim.

There is nothing in between.

All it takes is a sip.

Rhys has had enough for the day. He needs to get away. He can’t bring himself to face Feyre like this at the dinner table, can’t pretend through another meeting, can’t stop the sound of that laughter as Amarantha looks up at him with her hand on his cock and an evil mischief in her eyes. He can’t forget the feeling of her arms around his waist, pulling him backward, dragging him down into a thousand thread count hell and keeping him there day after day because to rebel means that all of this agony would be for nothing.

He needs to slip out quietly, to find a tavern in a sleepy part of town, to have one drink—just one—to bring him back to the present before he goes home for the day. No one bothers him. They never do. He just takes his seat, orders a drink, closes his eyes, and imagines that it will cleanse him of the pain and the memories like a tonic from Madja. He just needs to find that place again, that sweet spot of forgetting and feeling okay and not whatever this is that’s crawling around in his skin, this feeling that he can’t wash away.

_You know you like being my whore_.

Maybe a second drink will do it.

_I didn’t say you could stop_.

A third.

_Do you know how filthy you taste? Do you like when I take you in my mouth like this?_

One more.

_Say my name._

_Amarantha._

_Again._

_**Amarantha**._

_Harder— **fuck me harder**._

The bottle is empty.

It’s a strange thing about bottles. They hold so much promise when they’re full, when the color of the liquor is brilliant and crisp and stains the world around it as you look through the glass. For the briefest of moments, what you see is not where you are. It’s another world, another life, where one more sip, one more glass, _just one more_ is filled with potential. An empty bottle is just filled with self-loathing. There’s no more pretending when the glass is clear and you can see how distorted your own world and you by extension have become as you peer through the curves of the bottle. An empty bottle is an empty soul, an empty life, an opportunity wasted in favor of this.

There’s nothing at the bottom of a bottle except despair.

All he wants is to forget her name on his lips, to forget that they ever breathed the same air.

For the battle raging inside of himself to finish so he can count the dead and go home.

It happens quite by chance. Rhys and Nesta are two entities who firmly believe that they can’t really occupy the same room—not without casualties, anyway. They avoid each other as much as possible, though to be fair, Nesta avoids almost everyone if she can help it. Still, them meeting like this—neither is happy about it.

They both choose this tavern because it’s quiet. It’s off the beaten path. Cassian and Azriel and Feyre and the entire company of people who come and go through Rhys and Nesta’s lives do not come to this little place, do not know that it exists, will not seek it out or seek them out here. It’s a cruel twist of fate that they both happen to choose this place, at this time, on this day.

Sometimes the gods make a mockery of the living. Perhaps it’s all they have as they look down on us and watch as we scramble around in our own misery like pigs moving through mud. Perhaps it’s fun.

Perhaps it’s something more. Maybe there’s meaning in these little coincidences, these moments that make you stop in your tracks as you stare across the tavern at someone you’re not expecting, someone you don’t want to see.

Someone here for the same reason that you are.

At first there’s suspicion. Did Feyre send him? Are they going to try and send her away again? What did she do now? She hasn’t been bothering anyone. She hasn’t even been taking any of their money anymore. She has a job.

She _had_ a job.

What is he doing here?

But the suspicion doesn’t last long. Nesta knows that look too well, recognizes the quiet desperation hidden beneath dark circles and the scars of a battle, a war, that can never be won etched upon that face. And Rhys doesn’t think too hard about why he or Nesta are here. He’s too eager to quiet the voices screaming at him, the rage burning through his veins, the emotions that he cannot and will not name because to name them means that they’re real and he would have to feel them and Rhys will not accept that.

_Whore. Whore. Amarantha’s whore. You like being my whore. Maybe I should share you—would you like that? Look at how I touch you. Look at how you like it. I want you inside me. I want to feel you cum. Don’t pretend like you don’t want this, too. Look at how hard you are, and I haven’t even touched you yet._

It’s a grudging meeting of two minds who have nothing in common but the need for a drink. All it takes is a sip. Then another. Uneasy silence becomes companionable as another glass is poured. An amber colored bottle holds even more promise when you’re sharing it with someone else—it’s not just you looking through that glass anymore. It’s a shared vision, a promise. Enemies can find neutral territory over a drink. They can become friends over a few glasses. They can see the better world just on the other side of that cool, amber bottle.

But the bottle always empties, and now there are two pairs of eyes peering through that clear glass, the world on the other side of it concave and horrifyingly real. The promise is gone. There’s no other world here—only the world they started in.

And a new pair of eyes to greet them on the other side.

Nesta doesn’t mean to hurt Feyre—she really doesn’t. She loves her sister. More than she loves herself, to be honest. That’s the problem. Nesta reaches out to the seat next to hers, a palm resting on the thigh she least expected to be touching when she planned to take someone home tonight. She smooths that hand slowly upward, emboldened when violet eyes meet hers and no hand reaches out to stop it. Her hand moves inward. She feels him hard in his pants. He doesn’t stop her.

He doesn’t stop her.

 _Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Amarantha’s whore. Whore_.

Is it worse to fight and lose, or not to fight at all? Is the price still the same if you pay with your flesh instead of your soul? Are you still a victim if you didn’t say no, if you did it in the name of saving someone else, if you couldn’t be a victim because you’re supposed to be too strong for someone else to have that power over you?

The emotions are guilt and fear and an unrelenting shame that Rhys can’t stomach. It’s shame that spirals into self-loathing, that spirals into following Nesta home and decorating her floor with his clothes. It’s fear of what it means to be powerless, to be the victim when he should have known what would happen, should have been able to prevent it, that leads to his mouth on her skin. It’s guilt that he couldn’t do more, be better, that leads to a release and a betrayal.

But he’s used to betrayal by now—his body’s done it to him more times than he can count. And at least in this he is making a choice. He is not powerless.

Nesta doesn’t cry out at the pleasure. She doesn’t live for Rhys’ touch or long for the way he makes her feel. She doesn’t want to hear the sound of her name whispered in passion or ecstasy as he moves inside her. She doesn’t want to hurt her sister—not really.

She just wants to hurt herself.

It’s a battle, she thinks. A war. A downward spiral. An ending. A betrayal. A hope for an escape from the pain of fighting to survive each and every moment of each and every day as that name that once held so much hope for the future screams on in her nightmares.

_Tomas—Tomas, stop it!_

_You said you want to be with me._

_I don’t want this._

_You don’t get a fucking choice_.

When does a war end?


	2. Chapter 2

There’s something different about Rhys tonight, Feyre thinks, but she can’t quite tell what it is. 

Her steel blue eyes follow him with a determination that betrays the softness behind them. He’s been off all day—ever since that morning, when she felt him stiffen in her arms and rush to button up the crisp white shirt and the black jacket he prefers to wear. He’d barely been able to meet her gaze when he’d left her that day, almost rushing off as if he wanted to get away from her.

She had her told herself she was being ridiculous. Today is just a bad day for him. Just as Feyre has bad days. She doesn’t know what’s bothering him, but she doesn’t want to push it if he’s not ready to talk about it. She’ll be there for him, no matter what, she tells herself silently. She tries to smile at him as she walks over to him in her soft cream colored sweater, one of her favorites, and runs her hands over his shoulders, letting them smooth down his arms slowly. She would’ve liked to do this differently, to have surprised him when he was already in a good mood.

But, she supposes, when’s a better time for news like this than on a bad day, when she knows Rhys could probably use something to bring him back to her—to this life they’ve made together. “So, do you want to see what I’ve been working on today?”

She watches his dark eyebrows raise, those violet eyes finally meeting hers. She doesn’t fight the little rush of warmth in her veins at that gaze meeting hers, the way her heartbeat picks up just a little bit. “I thought you were preparing for a show?”

“I have been,” Feyre says mischievously, her hands drifting down those arms—strong, muscular, warm beneath that dark suit—to his hands. Her fingers curl around his as Feyre reaches those hands of his up in hers. “But I have a new painting I just finished, and I want you to be the first to see it.”

For a few seconds, she can see a little of the light returning to Rhys’ eyes, a little of that mischief and swagger and ego she knows so well. She misses when it’s gone, knows the moment it disappears from his eyes. She can see the struggle in everything about him, the way he holds his body as if he’s forcing himself to relax and play a game. Rhys has always liked his games, she knows. She remembers them well enough from her time under the mountain and in the Court of Nightmares. She knows what it looks like when Rhys is pretending. And now, here, gazing down at her with interest, he’s stopped pretending. “Really?” He gives her a little grin. It’s nowhere near his usual feline expression, but it’s close enough that Feyre is relieved. “Did you finally paint some of those sketches we worked on last Solstice?”

Feyre’s cheeks warm a little bit. She  _ has _ been thinking,  _ talking _ , about doing a real painting of him for weeks now. Mostly because she’s never tried a nude painting before. It has nothing to do with spending more time with a naked Rhys.

Nothing at all.

“I’m saving those for my next gallery showing,” Feyre responds smoothly.

“So the audience will be bigger?” Rhys suggests. 

“So it doesn’t look so small in the picture.”

That grin of Rhys’ grows just a little wider. “If you’re having that much trouble, perhaps you need to work from a live model rather than memory.”

The words warm Feyre to her core as she feels something bubble up in her that she hasn’t since she first accepted the mating bond. There’s a hint there, a whisper of that all that too memorable frenzy stirring in her. Madja had told her to expect it, that it’s normal for a female’s hormones to go a little into overdrive. “Perhaps I do need a closer look.” She says slowly, leaning her smaller frame against his and enjoying the way the curves of her body meet the solid of his. She feels Rhys harden against her and heat rushes between her legs, but she forces herself to swallow against a dry throat and press forward anyway.  _ That _ , she thinks, can come after. When they’re celebrating.

And she  _ plans _ to celebrate this, gods dammit.

“But first,” she says, just as she notices Rhys leaning forward to brush his lips against hers, “I want your opinion on this one.”

Rhys makes a show of sighing in resignation, so much of the tension that he always seems to keep in his body slipping away with the gesture. “Very well,” he replies dramatically. “I could never deny my lady anything.”

Feyre can hardly contain herself as she leads Rhys over to the chair where she’s propped the painting, a sheet hiding it from view until she’s ready. All of this planning, all of the heartache that the two of them have been through together--Amarantha, the war, trying to help her sisters, trying to keep the peace--everything, it seems, is culminating in this. This one perfect moment. This moment that they’ve been working toward.

She pulls the sheet away to reveal the painting of the boy from the Bone Carver’s cell, his bright violet eyes a perfect match to her mate’s. But in her painting, there are no bars to keep him behind. No mountain prison, she thinks, or sinister smirk as they’re taunted with half answers. No, this boy is smiling. This boy is happy. This boy is ready to come meet his parents.

Rhys goes deathly still when he sees the painting. He’s more surprised about it than Feyre expected if she’s honest, and for a moment she thinks there’s a little spark of... _ something _ ...that goes down the bond. She’s not sure what. She doesn’t have time to figure it out. It’s gone almost before she can even register that it’s there and Rhys gives her a look of joy and surprise that makes her feel like singing. “Does this mean…”

“Madja’s already confirmed it.” Of course, Madja didn’t know that it would be a boy yet, Feyre thinks, but  _ they _ know. “At least now we know why I’ve been throwing up so much again.”

Rhys seems speechless for a long moment, as speechless as Feyre was when she found out. “That was...faster than I expected.”

It’s faster than Feyre expected, to. She’s actually nervous at how quickly it took. She was expecting to wait for years--to have to cry and scream and stomp impatiently through those years. Instead, it’s only been one year since they started trying and they’ve already been blessed with a pregnancy.

She studiously avoids the superstitious little thought that sits at the back of her mind, whispering faintly that it’s happening so quickly...that something is going to go terribly wrong.

Instead, she smiles up at a happy, surprised Rhys, her eyes bright. “Happy Solstice, Rhysand.”

She pushes down the worry that Rhys’ smile doesn’t seem to quite meet his eyes.

  
  
  
  


Nesta hasn’t gotten out of bed since Rhys left.

It’s not out of any kind of sentimental nonsense, as if she doesn’t want to leave the spot where he’d left her or the place where the scent of him still lingers so strongly in her apartment. Her body feels heavy, every limb weighed down by something she doesn’t know how to describe. It’s rare for Nesta to have trouble finding words, but here she is, staring blankly up at her ceiling, the details of that afternoon replaying in her mind.

A drink. Two drinks. Her hand on his leg. Her hand on his cock as they stumble through the door of her bedroom after Rhys winnowed them there. His mouth on her body, between her legs. The way he kissed her, the way she kissed him back. It happened, she thinks in the darkness, and then it happened again. 

A drink.

A mistake.

And she can still smell him on her sheets. She can still smell him on her.

Strangely, she thinks, she’s not in any hurry to wash it away. It’s better than any of the other males she’s taken to bed in recent months, despite Cassian’s lurking around and trying to make things better. It’s better than all the drinks, all the card games and grimy taverns. It’s a spark, a very small spark, of feeling that manages to echo past all the pain that she’s forced into a silent numbness since Feyre sent her away.

Nesta isn’t sure whether it’s comforting how much she hates herself in that moment, for what she’s done to her sister, but somehow she can’t stop the thought that in all of her pain and loneliness, she’s not entirely alone. 

It shouldn’t be comforting to her, she thinks, but it is. Even if it shouldn’t happen ever again.

Even if a small part of her wants it to.

His mouth feels dry. He wants to throw up. He wants to be sick. He wants to scream. He wants to get out into the open Solstice air, spread his wings, and fly somewhere far away from here. He wants the darkness. He wants the silence.

He wants to take everything back.

Amarantha was right about him. Rhys struggles to keep the bile down as he lets out a long breath and leans against the back of the closed door. He can hear Feyre in the next room. She wants to share the big news with the others when they come for dinner. She’s so happy--so very happy.

How could he do this to her? How could he hurt like this?

But...he didn’t mean to. It was just a drink. Just something to help him steady his nerves. Just something to help him forget all that darkness that he tries so hard to keep buried. And then Nesta was there, and for a moment he expected it to turn into an argument. But somehow, she just  _ knew _ . Just figured it out. And it happened. It happened.

It happened and he’d kept it from Feyre. He’d hidden it from the bond, had stamped it down under the weight of his power as he’d felt Nesta’s hand on his leg, and he’d made a decision--a drunken, poor decision, he thinks. But in that moment, it hadn’t been about what the decision was, it had been about making a decision at all. Proving that he could, that he was strong enough, that Amarantha wasn’t still in control of him. He just wanted to silence that voice in his head, all those memories.

He hears the knock in the next room and knows that he can’t hide in here forever. Elain will be here with Lucien, soon. Azriel’s coming. Cassian’s coming.

_ Cassian’s coming _ .

Cassian, who’s been half in love with Nesta since the day he met her. Cassian, who they suspect has probably found his mate in Nesta.

Cassian, his own brother.

Rhys has played a lot of roles in his life. He’s been a villain since the day he was born into the Night Court. He’s been a son, an heir, a High Lord. He’s been an adversary and a nightmare, a warrior, a friend, a lover. Mate. He would be a father soon.  _ Father _ . 

The word sounds strange as he thinks it.

But no role feels quite so defining as the one he’d assumed under the mountain--no role can seem to drown that one out entirely. And no role will ever be as hard as the one he has to play now.

He opens the door to face Cassian, to smile and laugh with his brothers and his family, to celebrate his son, and pretend that he didn’t just spend the day with Nesta before doing everything he could to wash the drink, and the scent of her, from his body so he could home to them. 

Still, he can’t escape the feeling that he needs another drink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did another part. Because I'm mean to poor Rhys and Nesta and Feyre. And Cassian. 
> 
> And okay, I'm just mean. I'm getting kind of caught up in this narrative, though. Which means...I can't just stop there? I dunno. I honestly have no idea what I'm doing here. But if you're into this, let me know with a kudos or comment, I guess?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not spend most of my night thinking about this and then put off starting a paper for school to write it.
> 
> I mean, I actually DID, but we're going with the other story.
> 
> Also, fair warning, Nesta's not in a good place for part of this chapter and I'm wondering if maybe I need to adjust my tags. I'm not sure. Let me know what you think. But there's a little Nessian here, so...I'm enjoying it and I'm actually a little torn about how this should go next.

Nesta has washed the smell of the drink off her. She’s forced herself to bathe twice now, tugging impatiently on her long hair to bring it to her nose and try to determine if she can still smell Rhys on herself. She tries to ignore the thought that if she were still human, this wouldn’t be such a problem. She wouldn’t have to worry about the scent lingering on her this way or whether anyone else would smell it. She also wouldn’t have to worry about bathing so much, the feeling of the walls pressing in on her as she sinks down under the water and lets it cover her completely. She can’t decide whether to push herself back up for air or to let herself drown, to dissolve into the nothingness that she usually feels and has grown accustomed to. It’s been months since she came back to Velaris, she thinks, and even though she can fool everyone else into believing that she’s almost adjusted to it, she doesn’t believe that it will ever be home.

This place, this apartment, is just temporary. Immorality, to Nesta, is just a nightmare and she keeps waiting to wake up.

“If you just give me a chance,” Cassian told her once, after he’d whisked her away to an Illyrian camp for a forced detox, “you’ll grow to like this place.”

“Why would I give you a chance?” Nesta glared at him, at the mountains of snow and the red-black wings that filled the distance as warriors came and went. Some eyed the two of them, not bothering to hide their curiosity or disdain over the beautiful fae female he’d just flown into camp. A few were looking her over from top to bottom, sizing her up in a way that made her have to fight the shiver that threatened to move down her spine. She couldn’t decide then what she’d hated more about all of this--that she was stuck being fae, with no choice about who she was supposed to be or where she was supposed to live, or _what_ she was supposed...that her own sister had sent her here, choosing this new life for herself _and_ Nesta...or that she was stuck in an Illyrian camp with Cassian and no way to leave.

She hadn’t been bothering anyone, not really. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone to drink? What harm was she doing anyone? She’d even gone out of her way not to bother Feyre and Elain.

No one can choose happiness or sobriety for someone else.

But Cassian looked genuinely hurt at the question. As if he was trying, as if all he really wanted for Nesta was to see her...what? Like Feyre? With him? 

What about what Nesta wanted?

She sinks her head down further under the water, watching the bubbles from her air disappear to the surface. Her heart is beating wildly in her ears, her fingers clenching and unclenching in the water around her as she tries not to panic. But even though she doesn’t like bathing, even though she can’t _stand_ the idea of being confined this way, she likes the symbolism of it. The poetry. She can’t drown herself in drink or anger, so maybe she’ll just drown herself in this tub.

Maybe Rhys or Cassian can be the ones to find her here.

She wonders what they’d do in that moment. Cassian could stand over the tub of water, jaw hard, watching her bloated corpse and blaming himself--if only he’d tried harder, if only he could have made her listen or care. He’d talk about their time together.

Maybe he’d surprise her and defend her. “We never really gave her a chance.”

“You literally took her to a war camp to dry out.”

What kind of impossible asshole takes someone to a war camp to give up drinking, anyway? What, she drank too much, so their bright idea was to take to a place where everyone spends their days training to face their mortality? Half the Illyrians were more drunk than she’d ever managed to be.

She just looked better doing it. 

Nesta snorts under the water and the sudden rush of water into her nose has her rushing upward for air, coughing and gasping and sending water flying from the tub as she shoves herself out, her wet body falling into the floor in a graceless tumble. Her hair tangles around her naked body as she lays there for long moments, just catching her breath.

It was longer than she managed to stay under the last time, she thinks. Maybe she’s getting better at handling small spaces. 

Maybe one day she’ll stay under for good.

  
  


Cassian has come to fly Nesta to Feyre and Rhys’ estate. He tries not to be nervous as he waits at the door, pounding impatiently when she doesn’t immediately answer. He’s wearing his nicest clothes. He’s even combed his hair a bit, taking care to tie it up in as neat a bun as he can. He’s been trying to give Nesta some space ever since they got back, let her readjust to being back in Velaris and around people.

“You can stop looking at me like a child,” Nesta said in frustration, bristling under his gaze as he dropped her off at the door of her shitty apartment. “I’m not some helpless invalid who can’t survive without you.”

Cassian had just run a hand through his mussed hair, looking up and down the long street, not wanting to meet her gaze. “I’m just saying that your first time back in a city can be...difficult to adjust to.” He sighs. “You know you can live in a nicer place than this, right? I mean, somewhere without…” His eyes strayed to something dark as it crept down the street, hidden in the shadows of the building. “Rats.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, her lips pulling down into a scowl. “I like rats,” she replied, her voice hard. “ _They_ don’t bother me.”

Cassian hadn’t missed the implication in her words, but he also knew that she absolutely _did not_ like rats. And that he didn’t bother her quite as much as she let on...when he wasn’t stopping her from drinking. Or doing whatever the hell else she wanted.

But he hasn’t seen her in a couple of weeks now and he’s nervous. He was supposed to check in on her a couple of days ago, just to make sure she was okay, see if she’d needed anything.

“Anything?” She had given him that _look_ the first time he’d offered to check in on her. “Anything, like _what_?”

Cassian still doesn’t know how to describe that look, but he thinks it could probably cut glass or shatter diamond if she really wanted it to. “ _Anything_ ,” Cassian insisted, his arms wide as if he could offer her all of Velaris. He had briefly thought of asking Rhys if he could, just to see the looks on both of their faces. “ _Anything_ you want or need, Nesta,” Cassian boasted, his sincerety thinly hidden underneath his grandiose words. “I’ll be there.”

“Anything,” Nesta repeated, almost looking amused at the idea. “Anything…”

“ _Anything_.”

Cassian had watched her with his widest grin, ready for her to give him her most impossible task. Get her a mountain. Get her a castle. Get her-- _get her_ a copy of her favorite book from before she was Made. Hell, he thought to himself, if he believed that it might not make her sad or angry at no longer being human, he would’ve gladly done that already. He’d already gone and found a copy of it after Elain had mentioned it even though he wasn’t supposed to slip back into the human territory.

He’d done it right after that first time he’d met Nesta, after he’d first spoken to her. He was going to read it himself and then give it to her, so he could talk to her about it.

He used to wonder what it would be like just to sit next to her peacefully and watch her read something she really enjoyed, to watch the little expressions that came and went at each page. He imagined it would be peaceful, like meditation or maybe worship. 

“Can you get me a drink?” Nesta had asked instead. For a moment, his face fell as he stared at her, fear and defeat etched on the plains of his weathered face. He’d wondered if she really was ready to come back. Maybe she needed more time. Maybe she needed to get away from Velaris and Prythian and all of them completely.

Maybe she needed something more than he could give her.

All Cassian wanted, and still wants, is to make Nesta happy. However that ends.

He’s just not very good at it sometimes.

Her face is pinched when she opens the door to him, her plaited hair still damp. “You’re early,” Nesta accuses him.

Cassian grins widely. “I’m late.” He tries not to be obvious as he looks her over, noting that she’s gained a little weight but not much, her dress is neatly pressed, her face is flushed. She looks like she’s taking care of herself at least, he thinks. She’s not starving, even if she could still use a few more pounds.

She doesn’t smell like liquor.

Wait...Cassian leans in and sniffs. “Hey…” Nesta’s expression quickly turns into a scowl as he leans toward her, a low growl sounding as he leans forward and sniffs the air like a dog.

“ _What_ ,” Nesta starts sharply, “do you _think_ you’re _doing_?” Cassian would swear that she seems nervous, panicked, as he does it.

But even though he thinks he can get a whiff of _something_ , that something doesn’t quite smell right, Nesta’s scent is as perfect as it’s ever smelled, like sandalwood and ginger and fresh rain. “There’s a weird smell in your apartment.” Cassian doesn’t miss how Nesta goes perfectly still at the statement, surprised that she seems too shocked to protest when he pushes past her, following the scent.

Something about it bothers him and he doesn’t understand why. It’s a primal response, so automatic that he doesn’t recognize it when it happens. He just pushes further into her apartment, trying to find it, trying to figure out what it is.

But he can’t. He almost thinks he has it, but whatever it is, it’s so faint that he can’t recognize it. Especially, he thinks, not over the _other_ smell. “You know something died in here.” He sniffs again. “Right in the walls.”

He turns back to see Nesta standing ramrod straight, those steely blue eyes that she shares with her sisters intensely fixed on him. “I know something’s _going_ to die in here if you don’t stop acting like a bloodhound.”

Cassian sighs, shoulders and wings drooping just a little. “Tell me you’ve talked to the landlord about these rats,” he pleads, some of that primal urgency slipping away. 

Not all of it. He can’t shake that unsettling feeling that he’s missing something.

“I told you already, I like the rats,” she says sharply. Nesta glares at him with _that look_ , throwing her front door open wide for them to leave from. “They help to keep the bats at bay. Especially the ones who show up early.”

“Late.”

Nesta glares. Cassian huffs. He watches her stiffly for a long moment before his posture starts to relax a little. “Are you ready to go to dinner?”

“No.” The word is out there before Nesta can stop it, hanging in the cold air between them like some impenetrable barrier that neither one can ever cross. _No_ . It takes everything she has not to dwell on the fact that saying _no_ has stopped almost nothing in her life, especially not the bad things.

Cassian’s lips twitch upward in a little grin and he takes an easy step toward her, arms outstretched in a gesture that’s meant to put her at ease. “Well, we could always...blow it off,” he says mischievously. One of Nesta’s eyebrows peaks upwards a little. “We could go somewhere else. See some music. Get some food. Maybe find a good bookstore.”

Not that Nesta needs any _more_ books, Cassian thinks. Her walls are already stacked high with books that look like they’ve seen better days--one good knock on the wall and he’s worried that those stacks might tumble on her while she’s sleeping and that would be the end of Nesta Archeron. But it’s a peace offering. Maybe even an offering of friendship, if only she wants to take it. 

Nesta is considering. He can tell. “You won’t miss going to the dinner?”

“I can see Rhys and Feyre any time I want to,” Cassian answers easily. “Rhys is probably tired of seeing me after all the meetings today, anyway.” He takes another small, tentative step toward her, hopeful. “What do you say, Nesta? Just you and me?” Another tiny step, until the distance between them is rapidly closing and Cassian has to work to stop himself from reaching out and pushing at an errant strand of damp hair from where it’s escaped her braid. “I’ll even let you throw a book at me, if you want--just like you did in Illyria.”

Nesta’s lips twitch into a small smirk that she doesn’t expect at the memory.

_What the hell was that for?_

_If you’re going to trap me here, the least you can do is give me something decent to read._

But Nesta has played the good older sister ever since she came back. She hasn’t let them see her drink, hasn’t let them see anything of her except her perfect attendance at these pointless little events. Hasn’t really given a shit, if she’s being honest, but at least it means she doesn’t have them hovering over her, deciding she needs another intervention and sending her away and deciding even more of her life for her.

Does she dare miss this dinner?


	4. Chapter 4

It’s warm.

It’s warm and it smells like cinnamon and honey brown hair washed with expensive shampoo, and the bed is still perfectly dipped in all the right places as one eye drifts open...then closes...then both eyes tentatively brave the morning light. Cassian takes slow, restful breaths, neither his body nor his mind in any hurry to fully awaken. Not today. Not this morning. 

He’d rather bury his face into the sheets and feel his lips tug lazily into a small grin, inhaling the most perfect scent he’s ever smelled in all his life.

He could stay in bed forever, he thinks, clinging to warmth of the morning sun and that spot—the best spot in the entire bed. In the entire room.

In Cassian’s entire house.

Meditation and worship, indeed, he thinks.

_Are you just going to sit there and watch me?_

_Yes—no. I mean…_

_When did you even **get** this?_

_When did I—uh—well—_

_And why do you even have all these books in here?_

_Well, I—_

_Cassian? Cassian?_ “Cassian?”

“ _Nesssstaa…_ ” Gods, if he doesn’t love the way his name sounds on her lips, her voice as she gazes at him expectantly. 

“ **Cassian**!” 

The warmth gives way to cold rather quickly—cold and wet that sends a shockwave through his system as his body and wings are drenched in icy water and perhaps a bit of snow. Cassian howls and leaps from the bed, shoving away from those perfectly warm sheets, the spot that she occupied for only a few hours but that still smells perfectly like her. Or that did, he thinks in annoyance, before it got wet. He shakes the wet and snow off of him as much as he can, nearly dancing on his toes as he paces back and forth in the bedroom in a desperate attempt to push back and the cold and the wet. 

He could fucking scream at whoever just dumped the icy water and snow on him. Whoever managed to get into his house, to get into his bedroom without him noticing. He shouldn’t have slept so soundly, shouldn’t have let his guard down. It was stupid, he thinks. Fucking stupid. 

He’s glad that Nesta isn’t here to see it.

Wait, Nesta—“Nesta?” His voice shakes as he says her name, uncertainty coloring every syllable. He tries to remember how the night ended, when she left, if she was okay, what happened. She’s not here, right? She’s safe? She wasn’t dunked with water?

He doesn’t want to see her if she was dunked with water.

Hell, he doesn’t want to see what happens to the person dumb enough to try and dump a bucket of ice water on Nesta.

But that’s not what’s important—

“Nesta?” There’s humor and an edge of something else to Mor’s voice as she blinks at Cassian, brown eyes bright as they take in the now wet Cassian. “You’re sleeping naked and waking up saying _Nesta_?”

Cassian doesn’t remember that he’s naked until Mor mentions it, but now that he thinks about it, it does explain the cold in some rather delicate places. 

He shakes the cold water from his hair and tries to brush it back, smoothing it down from his forehead with his palms and finally focusing his gaze on Mor. She’s standing on the other side of the bed, dressed for warmth on the cold Velaris morning as she crosses her arms and watches him like she’s waiting for an explanation. There have been times in the past when Mor looking at him like that would’ve made him pause, would have made him wiggle his eyebrows at her and say something flirtatious and witty--well, witty for Cassian, anyway. Even knowing that Mor had drawn a line between them after that one time they were together, and that Cassian had agreed to it, he had still noticed Mor...still felt for her. He still would have chosen to be with her, if she hadn’t made it clear that she didn’t cause tension between he and Rhys. Or, he supposes, if Azriel hadn’t been mad about her?

What would it have been like if Mor had chosen to be with him despite the consequences?

And then there’s Nesta.

It’s hard to look at Mor the same way now, to _think_ about her the same way, now that he’s met Nesta and he knows what he knows about her.

_About them_.

He’s trying with Nesta, though. He’s trying really hard.

“Are you going to answer me?” Mor is losing patience, that over-confident smirk still tugging at her lips as Cassian watches. He blinks at her a few times.

“Is it really chilly in here?” Cassian rubs the back of his head, feeling unusually breezy as he looks around his place. The fire is still going. The room is wide and well-lit, and the big windows are clear with the curtains wide open—he can see the snow falling outside, the busy people of Velaris coming and going somewhere in the distance. Far enough away that he can stand there without clothes and not worry. Rhys helped him find this place after he came back from Illyria with Nesta. He wanted somewhere big and quiet to be closer to the city.

_Really? Closer to the city, huh? I thought you only wanted a nice room somewhere._

_Is there something wrong with me wanting to be closer to family, maybe take in a little music and culture?_

_Of course not. I can always find you somewhere close to the book district, too. If you want._

Cassian had to resist knocking that knowing little smirk off Rhys’ face at the time.

“It might be your cock hanging out for all to see,” Mor remarks dryly, pointing at Cassian’s lack of pants. It’s only when Mor literally points to Cassian’s cock that Cassian looks downward and realizes that he is, in fact, naked.

“Oh, yeah.” He’d forgotten about that.

Mor can’t decide if she’s entertained or concerned by this or not. “So…you’re naked and you’re saying Nesta’s name in your sleep. And…” Mor leans forward, sniffing the air idly, moving toward Cassian’s bed and waving her hand to waft the air toward her. “Was Nesta _in your bed_?”

“No,” Cassian responds quickly—perhaps a little too quickly. Mor gives him a sharp look, lips drawn down. She holds his gaze for a long moment and Cassian does his best not to squirm. He doesn’t like these little confrontations, these little…lies. “Maybe.”

Mor groans and rolls her eyes. “I thought you said you were done with Nesta after that thing with the present.”

“Did I?”

He did. He remembers it, too. He just doesn’t want to admit that to Mor. He isn’t in the mood for the lecture from her, doesn’t really want to hear Mor’s reasoning for Cassian’s need to move on.

“Cassian, _come on_.”

But Cassian is determined not to let Mor dwell on this too much, not if he can help. He looks to her with that big, stupid, goofy grin of his, holding out his arms in a gesture of excitement—still not wearing any clothes—that one of his best friends is here and takes a step toward Mor. “Hey, you’re in Velaris.” Then his grin gradually starts to fall. “Wait, you’re in Velaris. Is everything okay with Emerie?”

Mor is fully prepared to grill Cassian for details. She wants to know what Cassian is still doing asleep at this time of day. Why is he naked in bed—well, Mor amends, he’s always naked in bed. Even in the frigid cold, she remembers, Cassian is exactly the sort to sleep naked. But why is he naked in a bed that smells like Nesta? And why does he have so many books in his house?

So many _human_ books.

And why—but it doesn’t matter. At the mere mention of Emerie’s name, Mor freezes in her spot and gives Cassian a look of devastation that he’s only seen her wear a few times before. Only in the face of war or dealing with her family has Mor looked so pained, so broken. “Mor?”

“She broke up with me.”

And just like that, Mor’s curiosity about Cassian and Nesta is replaced with sobs for her break-up as Cassian holds her and she cries into his shoulder.

Which is good, Cassian thinks, because as much as he hates that Mor is hurting, he’s not ready to answer questions about Nesta just yet. Or about what happened last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not at all sure about how this is going and if I'm writing Rhys and Nesta very consistently, but I have an ending that I'm working toward in mind, so I'm *trying* my best to find my way there while keeping as closely to how I sort of outlined for this story as possible.
> 
> But like my other story, Court of Bodyguards and Side Glances, my outline is kind of kicking me in the ass a little bit and surprising me with details as I write, soo...I don't know. Just pretend that you don't hate me or are disappointed as this continues, if it's not as good as that first chapter that I'd originally intended to be a one-shot before I decided that I couldn't help myself. Because as I've said in chapter notes before, I have no self-control.
> 
> Also, all fae have the ability to act like bloodhounds in my head, apparently. And Cassian's sleeping in the buff? Yeah, that's officially a headcanon for me. I can't unthink that now. Also also, I'm still on tumblr @artemisausten, if anyone wants to follow each other!
> 
> Also also also, CONFRONTATIONS AND DRAMA ARE COMING, I SWEAR IT.


	5. Chapter 5

Feyre is actually happy to see Nesta—she usually is these days. The change always surprises Nesta a little bit. She’s still so used to the idea of Feyre and her friends bristling at the idea of having to see her, those last moments before Cassian took her away repeating in her mind like a bad dream. _I want you out of Velaris_.

Part of her just can’t get used to it, this idea that she’s welcomed back with open arms, a beloved sister returning from…whatever they had decided she was returning from. In a strange way, it was easier to get used to Cassian and his trying to be her friend. She didn’t mind his presence so much anymore, even if most of the time that he wasn’t trying to engage her in conversation or make her laugh was spent just staring at her and watching her read, like last night.

It had been easy, to be comfortable in that. To just…be.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Feyre says in a tired voice and pulls Nesta into a hug, and for a moment, Nesta has trouble believing that this moment is happening. That Feyre is happy she’s here. That they’re hugging at all. What had changed so much, so completely, about their relationship that now they were hugging and acting like best friends?

_She sent Nesta away_.

But somehow, Nesta is glad, too. Despite all of it, she still loves her sisters. Even if she doesn’t think they return the sentiment. Even if Nesta isn’t completely sure she knows how to return the gesture.

They love the Nesta who came back and plays nice, she thinks. The one who hugs Feyre back and comes to an early breakfast with Feyre and Rhys, even though she’d rather avoid being here—had gone out with Cassian last night to avoid being here. But that’s not really her.

Is it?

“I’m,” Nesta pauses, nearly choking on the words that feel so unnatural to her, “happy to be here. I’m sorry I missed last night.”

“It’s no big deal.” Feyre waves her dismissal as she pulls away, taking in her older sister. She’s pleased that Nesta looks healthier than the last time she saw her—she thinks Nesta looks healthier every time she sees her now. Maybe she’s just relieved that Nesta looks better at all, that she isn’t spending her days on wine and males whose names she doesn’t keep track of. Or maybe she’s just relieved that Nesta is back at all and isn’t mad at Feyre for what she did. Feyre has done her best to stop feeling guilty for sending Nesta away. “Cassian wasn’t there, either.”

Nesta feels something stir inside her at the comment, but she isn’t sure exactly what it is. Fear, maybe? Concern? Guilt? She did go with Cassian to avoid coming to dinner. She just couldn’t face Mor and Amren and all of them together, couldn’t bring herself to step inside this home Feyre had made for herself.

They’d been right outside the front door, seconds from knocking, when Cassian had seen it.

_I meant what I said, you know. We don’t have to go._

_They’ll notice._

_They’ll be trying **not** to notice how Amren and Varian keep pawing at each other every chance they get_.

It had been foolish to let Cassian fly her away then. But she’d done it.

She’d gladly let him do it. Even if, she thinks silently, she still thought he was an overgrown bat.

Nesta pointedly looks away from Feyre, taking another tentative step into the room. She doesn’t want to talk to Feyre about Cassian. “So, what’s so urgent?” Nesta has an idea of what it could be, is half afraid of what it’s going to be, but if Feyre knew about her and Rhys, then Nesta thinks her reception would have been very different. More likely, Nesta thinks, Rhys hasn’t said anything. Her voice wavers a little as she asks, “Has something happened?”

Feyre looks toward the door with a frown, wishing Cassian would walk through the door and she would be able to tell them both the good news at the same time. It was hard enough trying to keep it from Rhys while she worked on the painting to surprise him. She’s been practically bubbling with excitement ever since she found out and keeping herself calm long enough to tell the others last night had taken most of her self-control. “Something’s happened, alright.” She doesn’t miss that Nesta tries to school her face into something like passive interest to cover the look of panic in her eyes. “Something _good_.”

Nesta looks relieved.

“I’m pregnant.”

It takes Nesta a few seconds for the words to sink in, she’s so surprised by them. She hadn’t even known that they were trying to get pregnant.

And fae really have to try, don’t they? She remembers something Madja told her right after she was Made, when Cassian and the others brought her back to the House of Wind—about how different fae bodies were. How much longer their cycles last. The warnings of what to expect. Surprise pregnancies are rare. Feyre had never mentioned anything about wanting children, Nesta thinks. She would remember.

“Oh.” Nesta’s so surprised that she’s not sure how to react.

Clearly, however, it’s not what Feyre was hoping for. “Oh?” Feyre gives Nesta a crestfallen look. “That’s all?”

“Congratulations,” Nesta adds quickly. Even with all her surety, all her confidence—well, whatever confidence she used to have, since she sure as hell doesn’t feel it now—Nesta is scrambling to know what to say, what to do. There’s an anxiety there now, something that starts in the pit of her stomach and rushes through her veins until it’s all she can do to clench and unclench her hands as a way to keep focused. An overwhelming sense of dread. She used to smother it with her biting remarks and cold, sharp looks. But, she thinks, that just got her sent away. She swallows back the rising panic as best she can and gives Feyre a long, assessing look. “You’re going to get really fat.”

Feyre slowly starts to smile, her hand moving to her stomach in an idle gesture as she thinks about all the changes that are coming. “I think I’ll be okay with that.”

“More of you to love, Feyre, darling.”

Nesta’s gaze moves sharply to where Rhys is standing in the hall entry, giving his wife and mate a glowing look. That panic Nesta felt only seconds ago, that one she managed to get under control enough that she could congratulate her sister and ignore the sting of not knowing that Feyre even wanted children, rushes back at her in a blinding wave at she gazes at Rhys. Frustratingly, she thinks, he isn’t even looking at her or acknowledging her presence. He’s staring at Feyre, those violet eyes pinned on her as if she’s the single, most important thing in his entire world.

And Nesta is irrationally furious at it. Her mind unconsciously flashes back to the day before, when Rhys had been sharing her bed. When he had looked at her with a dark heat in his eyes, let her hands travel the length of him, settled himself between her legs. She can still feel the weight of him on top of her, if she thinks on it too closely. And now, here he stands, not even a glance in her direction. She should probably be grateful that he hasn’t done something stupid and given it away, she thinks darkly, but it doesn’t stop the anger, and Nesta decides to welcome it. Anger is better than the other emotions that are warring inside her right now, anyway.

“You better still being saying that when I actually do start to show,” Feyre warns him, humor in her voice. Rhys just smiles at her, wide and genuine, ignoring Nesta as he crosses the room. Nesta wishes that she hadn’t come now, wishes she had found another way out of being here.

Or at least that she had come at any other time, when she didn’t have to see Rhys.

“As if there could ever be anyone but you.”

_And me_. The thought surprises Nesta. Her gaze burns into Rhys. She wants him to look at her. She wants him to at least sneak a glance in her direction. She wants _something_.

She wants to feel like she exists and isn’t just someone to be called for and sent away when it’s convenient.

It’s a bitter, cruel thing to live in Velaris and see Feyre with her new friends, her new family. To know, as Nesta has thought so many times, that they’ve willingly accepted everyone else into their little group, but Nesta is always found wanting. She doubts if she will ever be considered part of their group, really. She has a family, she thinks, she has sisters, but they don’t really belong to her anymore.

Nesta Archeron is just there for show, forced to exist as if she wanted this life, this world. As if it mattered that she was there at all.

What a joke.

Nesta is about to say something. She’s not sure as she goes to open her mouth, but she has to say something to find her escape. She has to get away from here. Then there’s a knock at the door, and Feyre looks over at it in excitement. And Rhys’ eyes finally dart to Nesta’s.

And the cold, dark look of warning in them makes Nesta feel sick.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY AN UPDATE.
> 
> I'm giving myself such anxiety with this story, trying not to write any sucky chapters and freaking myself out too much to write. No more! I'm just going to do it and see where it takes me!
> 
> And hopefully, it'll be somewhere good.

Cassian’s arrival is a complication, even if he doesn’t know it. All Cassian knows is that Feyre is excited to see him and that something about the morning light in Velaris really suits her—she’s almost glowing, and it has nothing to do with her power. He also knows that Mor is still crying back at his house, digging into a carton of ice cream and making herself at home in his bed while she rehashes her break up with Emerie for what’s probably the hundredth time.

_She said that I’m not sincere. Can you believe that? You think I’m sincere, don’t you?_

Cassian didn’t say what he really wanted to say, which was that Emerie was likely picking up on Mor’s lack of really committing to the relationship and her occasional flirtations with another young Illyrian female who’s recently started training with he and Azriel. It would probably have just brought on another fresh wave of tears and Mor’s crying something into his chest that was too garbled to fully understand.

He loves Mor with all his heart, but he was glad when she finally settled down enough that he could take a look at the clock and get some clothes on. He was supposed to meet Feyre and Rhys for breakfast, after all, since he missed the dinner the night before.

And he’d been wondering if Nesta would be there and what it would be like to see her after spending most of the night with her.

At least Mor had stopped asking questions.

_I wasn’t trying to make her feel insecure. I just wanted to be nice to the new recruits_.

Mor, Cassian thinks idly as he steps into Feyre and Rhys’ house, just doesn’t do introductions very well sometimes, although even he had thought she was being a little too friendly toward the new-comers. He gives Feyre a big hug, as though he hasn’t seen her in days, and follows her into the living room, thinking it’s as cozy as it always is. He doesn’t notice the _look_ that passes between Nesta and Rhys and how Nesta breaks eye contact, swallowing anxiously and looking toward him. He doesn’t know that Rhys is grinding his teeth, mentally calculating _exactly_ how to handle this situation. He doesn’t know that Feyre is trying to compensate for feeling guilty over sending Nesta away and still worried about Rhys’ reaction to her news yesterday.

Cassian, bless him, is absolutely oblivious to everything happening in this room, except for Nesta’s gaze meeting his and moving swiftly from being panicked, comforted, and desperate to look anywhere else in the room than at him.

He doesn’t know that Nesta is absolutely terrified in that moment that Cassian will know, just _know_ , that something has happened between she and Rhys.

The little wave of fear that reaches him through the mating bond, despite Nesta’s efforts, worries him, though. He quickly finds his way to her side, trying to act casually, even though just about anyone in the inner circle can pull off acting casually better than Cassian. “Nesta,” Cassian greets her with a broad grin. He opens his mouth to say something, _tries_ to say anything that could conceivably be casual and friendly, then closes his mouth quickly and tries not to let his shoulders fall in defeat. “You look well rested.” His voice is a little weaker than he’d meant it.

Rhys is secretly trying to maintain his control from where he’s standing, both grateful and concerned by Feyre’s return to his side as she pulls him against her and he drapes an arm around her shoulder. Nesta looks well rested? What does that mean?

It takes a lot of effort on Rhys’ part, and another swift look toward Nesta, to keep himself from crossing a boundary that he’d prefer not to cross. He’s already crossed one line, he thinks, trying not to hear Amarantha’s voice echoing in his head again. _Whore whore whore_. He’s not going to cross another one.

Not if he can help it.

Cassian is his brother, he reminds himself. He won’t do it.

Nesta shifts uncomfortably under _everyone_ ’s gaze—Cassian, who’s trying so hard to be casual that it’s almost physically painful for Nesta; Feyre, who’s looking between the two of them hopefully; and Rhys, who’s giving Nesta a friendly-but-not-really smile that Nesta can’t miss the message behind.

_Not. A. Word._ She can hear Rhys’ voice clearly in her head.

Not a word. Not a word?

Nesta almost wants to scream at the very command. She practically itches to let go of her secret as she feels Rhys’ eyes on her, willing her into submission while she tries to fight the push and pull going on inside of her. She supposes it would have been different if he hadn’t acted so dismissive, if Rhys hadn’t just flat out refused to even look at her, but whatever Nesta may have done, she wasn’t—

The thought doesn’t finish.

She lets out a long, slow breath, fixing a small smile on Cassian that’s more sincere than the one she gave to Rhys and Feyre, even if it does hide a secret beneath it. “And you look like you haven’t brushed your hair.”

Cassian gets a lazy grin as Rhys and Feyre watch Nesta. Feyre lets out a small breath, waiting for the ensuing argument to start. Waiting, she thinks, for the inevitable clash between Cassian and Nesta, the fireworks, the disappointment that even though Nesta’s come back and is doing better, this may not work out.

And Feyre still thinks, quite foolishly she tells herself, that she’d like for Cassian and Nesta to be together. They would be a good match, she thinks. They could be happy. Cassian tries hard enough. She wishes that Nesta might try a little more.

“I _haven’t_ ,” Cassian responds, almost as though it’s a point of pride and he’s grateful to Nesta for noticing. In truth, he did. He had rapidly forced a brush through it before pulling it back into a bun and trying to get dressed as quickly as possible, but Cassian had long since perfected that wind-swept look that meant it always looks unbrushed and a little untamed. It’s one of the things that comes with being Illyrian. “But I didn’t want to be late. I heard a rumor that there’s something important I missed at dinner.”

The dinner, he thinks, that he blew off in favor of Nesta. He looks at Nesta, unable to keep the hint of sparkle out of his eyes as he thinks over the night before and how it had ended—back at his house, with Nesta reading until she was almost falling asleep in his bed while he just sat beside her and watched. It was like it was meant to be, he thought then. A perfect moment.

Feyre is so excited again that she can barely keep it in. She’s loved seeing everyone’s reactions to the news—it’s almost as exciting as actually _being_ pregnant. She hasn’t noticed the way that Nesta is standing so stiffly or how Rhys’ smile is strained every time he looks in Nesta’s direction. Cassian thinks that he can tell something is off, thinks he can feel a little wriggle of something through the bond with Nesta even though she’s gone out of her way to tamp it down. He can see the way she’s holding herself, the way she almost looks just a little uncomfortable. He just can’t tell what it is that’s bothering her or why. He doesn’t know that Rhys keeps sending her sharp looks or that a secret exists between them at all.

“I’m pregnant.”

It takes everything Nesta has to keep silent as Rhys’ eyes send daggers her way, that little message repeating in her head unbidden. _Not. A. Word. Not. A. Word. Not. A. Word._ As if Rhys himself is repeating it for her. But it’s not a command, she thinks. She can feel that it’s not a command.

_Not yet._

Cassian, meanwhile, explodes with excitement and pulls Feyre into a big hug, spinning her around the room. It’s the only thing that pulls Rhys out of his focus on Nesta as he charges forward, concern written all over his face as he frowns at Cassian and Feyre. “Not so hard, Cassian. Be careful.”

Cassian puts Feyre down quickly, coming to his senses at Rhys’ words. For her part, Feyre is actually amused at the way both males are looking at her now, as if it had been horribly dangerous to pick up and spin her around in a big bear hug. “Shit, Feyre. Are you okay?”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“I could get Madja.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Feyre insists, pushing both males away from where they’d been closing in around her, worried about the baby.

“You should still sit down,” Rhys insists, his voice laced with fear. He can’t help the reaction and he doesn’t know why. Logically, he knows that Feyre is okay—that one excitable hug isn’t going to harm her or the baby. That still doesn’t stop his heart from racing at the sight or the way his palms start to sweat. He just knows that he’s already lost so many people he’s cared about, he can’t risk his mate or their baby.

“Is this how it’s going to be the entire time I’m pregnant?” Feyre is still amused, even if she’s already anticipating being exhausted from just dealing with Rhys being overprotective. Rhys quickly moves a chair for her to sit in and waves one of his hands toward it in a grand gesture.

“ _Yes_ ,” Rhys and Cassian both say at the same time. Feyre glowers in her seat and Nesta watches the exchange with a feeling she can’t shake—the feeling that she doesn’t quite belong here. That she’s intruding on a scene that’s not meant for her. It’s painful and maddening at the same time as Nesta relives the same emotions that she’s felt a hundred times before now.

She doesn’t belong here, she thinks. But Feyre and Elain are her family, so why shouldn’t she?

And if she doesn’t belong here, then where does she belong?


	7. Chapter 7

Nesta can’t decide if she wanted to avoid a confrontation with Rhys or charge directly into it, but it happens as she’s leaving Feyre and Rhys’ home. Cassian is stepping out behind her just as she reaches up and rubs her arms in a vain attempt to ward off the chill. “Colder than you expected?”

Nesta has to stop herself from letting out a bitter laugh at the question. Was it colder than she expected? Yes, she admits to herself silently. Should she have expected it?

Probably. Everything in her past experiences with Feyre’s new family should have taught her to expect something else than she did. “I should have grabbed a heavier coat before leaving this morning,” she replies instead. She’s not about to open up to Cassian, even after all their time together. She’s certainly not about to tell him the truth. Even if, she thinks, a large part of her would like to. She would like to walk right up to Cassian and tell him everything—let him decide what he thinks of her then, if she’s _really_ worth all this effort. Let Rhysand deal with the fallout of her confession.

She’s never wanted to say anything so badly in her life. All the secrets she’s kept all these years, especially about her relationship with Tomas, and this is the one that she wants to share. It’s like something from one of her books.

Cassian in unaware of her inner battle. He just grins at her and flares out his wings, standing a little straighter, as if he’s just come up with the most brilliant idea he’s ever thought of in his entire life. Idly, Nesta wonders how low the bar must be for whatever he’s about to do to be that special. “Wait here.”

Nesta watches with a frown as Cassian disappears back inside the house, wondering what the hell he’s up to and whether she’s going to like it or not.

She’s halfway to deciding that she probably won’t when Rhys appears beside her, winnowing in silently as if he’s been waiting for the right moment. She only realizes that he’s there when he finally speaks, his voice low and edged with something like menace as he leans in close enough to her that she’s the only one who can hear him. “ _What_ ,” Rhys nearly growls as Nesta barely keeps herself from jumping in surprise, “was that?”

Nesta turns slowly to glare at him, noticing despite her anger the way that Rhys’ violet eyes flash in the morning light and the way his hair is swept back as if he’s been running a hand through it in frustration. She’s vaguely aware of the irrational urge to reach out to run her own hand through it, remembering how she’d done it only yesterday and the way it had felt. Nesta forces herself to take a deep, steadying breath and meet his gaze, determined not to let Rhys see her distracted. “ _What was that_?” She feels herself scowl, mouth pulling taut in an expression all too familiar for her. “I could ask you the same question.”

Rhys’ brows go up sharply as he watches Nesta. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That means you don’t get to show up at my favorite tavern, screw me, and then pretend that nothing happened.”

Rhys’ lips curl up into a cruel smirk that makes Nesta clench her fists, fingernails digging into her palms. “I thought that was how you preferred it.”

Nesta isn’t sure if she’s ever hated someone so much in her life as she glares at Rhys, her cheeks flushed at the reminder of what her life had been like before he and Feyre had sent her away.

_I want you out of Velaris._

A fresh wave of anger, something so deep and feral that Nesta doesn’t consciously recognize it, washes over her. She can feel her fingernails breaking skin, the warmth of blood against her fingertips. She doesn’t even recognize the low growl that seems to rise from her throat as her eyes never leave her brother-in-law, the High Lord of the Night Court, the most powerful High Lord in the history of Prythian.

She wants to murder him with her bare hands. She wants to attack. It’s only the small part of Nesta that manages to remain rational and remind her that she wouldn’t win a fight against the most powerful high lord in the history of Prythian that lets Nesta manage to restrain herself. “And I thought you were mates with my sister. Perhaps we should have a word with her about it?”

Rhys is in Nesta’s face faster than either of them can contemplate, the distance between them closed and heated as he leans down to give her a dark look, violet eyes flashing dangerously. She can feel Rhys using the full weight of his power, pushing down against her as he growls through gritted teeth with a ferocity that Nesta has never felt from him before. “ _You won’t speak a word of this to Feyre_.”

Rhys is angry and determined. None of this, he thinks, _none of this_ will ever come to light. Feyre doesn’t need to know, especially not now. It was a mistake—one single, foolish mistake that came from a bad day and too much alcohol. It meant nothing. _Nesta_ means nothing. _Not a word. Not a word. Not a word._

Nesta can feel Rhys’ voice in her head, commanding her to do what he says—to say nothing to Feyre, not ever. _Not a word. Not a word. Not a word._

Nesta takes an unsteady breath as she refuses to break Rhys’ gaze, feeling his power wash over her, those words pressing into her mind without permission. She won’t back down, she thinks. She can’t back down. Not this time. Not now. She can’t. How many times can her life be taken away from her? How many times does someone else get to break her, hurt her, steal from her, decide for her? Losing her mother. Losing her home. Losing her sister. Losing her life—being re _made_. Losing any sense of belonging. Her father. Losing her innocence and her sisters and the only home she had left all over again, getting pushed aside or thrown out. All Nesta ever wanted was quiet. All she wanted was to be cared about enough that someone would fight for her. All she wanted was to feel—to feel…

It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want to _feel_ whatever it is anymore. She just can’t bear to lose anything else, and she can’t bear to lose it to Rhys of all people.

_Not a word. Not a word. Not a word._

**_No._ **

It surprises Nesta and Rhys, each taking a sudden step back as the anger slips away momentarily and gives in to shock—as if neither could believe that it really happened.

No?

_No?_

Rhys is looking at Nesta with new eyes, gaze trailing over her as if he’s trying to pick her apart, piece by piece. It couldn’t have been possible— _she_ couldn’t have done that, pushed back at him like that. But Rhys couldn’t have imagined it…could he?

Neither of them has the time to question it too closely as Cassian finally returns, one of Feyre’s warmest coats in hand, oblivious to whatever was just happening between them but concerned by the way that they’re both staring at each other. Cassian can feel something pang inside of him, that familiar little rage of jealousy that he’s worked so hard at ignoring. Nesta’s not his, he’s reminded himself. He has no right to be jealous. It doesn’t mean anything.

Mates. Mating. Love. Whatever this is. It’s all so unnecessarily confusing.

“Rhys?” Cassian recognizes the stiff sound of his own voice and feels stupid for it. “Shouldn’t you be fussing over Feyre?” His gaze moves from Rhys’, curious at the softened expression on his brother’s face as he tries to decide what it is, and looks to Nesta…Nesta who looks…confused. Uncomfortable. Uncertain.

Surprised?

Cassian grins a little at his brother, knowing without having to think about it what will break this strange little moment between he and Nesta. “I think Feyre was saying something about rearranging all the furniture on her own to prepare for the baby before I left.”

Rhys’ gaze moves sharply to Cassian, the male visibly paling. “She’s **_what_**?”

Cassian can’t contain his laughter at the quick response, nor his excitement for Rhys and Feyre’s good news. He slaps his brother on the arm and gives him his biggest grin. “Congratulations, brother.”

But Rhys isn’t sure what to feel anymore as he barely spares Nesta a parting glance before turning back to the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated as I live for external validation and stayed up waaaay past my bedtime to write this after writing a grad school paper on bias in historical scholarship. My brain is mush. And also, like I said, I'm really tempted to do a part two.
> 
> So, yeah.


End file.
